


Lady's Night

by BuddingClover



Category: Original Work
Genre: Anal Sex, Anxiety, BDSM, Breasts, Choking, Daddy Kink, F/M, Foot Fetish, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Girl Penis, POV First Person, Romance, Spanking, Tender Sex, Tenderness, Trans, Trans Character, Trans Female Character, Transgender
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-16
Packaged: 2021-03-02 21:01:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,741
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24193249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BuddingClover/pseuds/BuddingClover
Summary: After a hurtful encounter, a shaken trans girl desperately seeks solace in the comfort and peace of her Daddy's home.  When her gender-related anxieties peak, her Daddy decides that it's time to derail her mind and bring attention to every way He knows her to be His Woman.
Relationships: Original Female Character/Original Male Character
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. Insecurities

**Author's Note:**

> Lady's Night is based loosely on elements from a number of the author's personal fantasies and kinks, and her experiences as a trans woman. If you'd like to otherwise go into this story without any other spoilers, please read on! If you'd like a deeper look at what will be included, please see end notes.
> 
> Anonymous comments are disabled, as they will be on any of the author's work that includes transgender characters. Apologies for any inconvenience.

Nights like this are the only thing I still live for, these days. The dusky twilight whorls that flow through each other and across the cloud-filled skies creep faintly around the edges of the closed blinds. Pointless, because even as they escaped the heavy curtains – a recent addition to the room that He had added swiftly after I once offhandedly mentioned that the early-morning sunlight gave me headaches – those rays are gobbled up by the harsh yellow beams of the aging, artsy ceiling lamp.

For just a moment, I break my eyes from the television and thoughtfully gaze up at it. For the four hundredth time, probably, as it reminds me so much of Him in so many ways. Like Him, one day it just appeared in my life; He brought it home from a yard sale or something the morning after one of my sleep-overs. And also like Him, its tactful signs of aging and open, familiar aesthetic instantly set my mind at ease. The lamp carried the air of having always been a part of my life, steady, stable. No matter how many different ways I ask, He never tells me why He brought something so highbrow and out of His interests. I bet if I were to ask Him right now, "I just like it" is all that He'd say.

A sudden bout of light giggling plays at my shoulders as I turn my attention back towards the TV, earning me a small upturned corner of His lips and the gentle brush of His fingers running through my hair. We're watching one of our shared favorites. The four prank-loving friends had such sweet chemistry that it shined through no matter how personal the pranks and punishments would go. Mindless, harmless fun that always brings out the shrieking laughter in both of us.

But tonight all it manages to draw out of Him is the occasional amused grunt, and somber silence from me. Still, even that morose quiet is a step up and a far cry from the shuddering, wet, sobbing disaster of smeared makeup and tangled hair that landed on His porch with all the frenzied force of a downed passenger jet. Without a word He took a firm hold of my hands and pulled me into the small foyer of His home, immediately enveloping me in the private warmth of His arms. I know that I broke down at that point and couldn't stand on my own anymore, but I don't remember much of the specifics now. Eventually He gave up on trying to tease the source of my ragged state out of me and tenderly laid the both of us down on His plush couch while He wrapped those powerful arms around my waist and held me with all the gentle compassion of a lovesick Father.

We've stayed like this for hours and another episode winds down into its credits. I feel His Hand slowly rubbing my tummy in circles to massage the stony plates of anxiety that had formed in my guts. Heavenly. Whispering my relieved gratitude for His care, I feel the tickling heat of His breath spill down across my exposed ear as He slides a few errant strands of my hair behind it to answer me in a whisper of His own.

"My usually bubbly, happy-go-lucky Princess has shed an awful lot of tears tonight. Do you feel any lighter, now? Would you like to work through anything with me?"

God, He knows how to handle me so well. There is no ultimatum in His words, no unspoken, imperious demand that I crack myself open at the seams for Him. The rumbling tenor of His voice is thick with the sweet edge of genuine, unconditional compassion. Waves of gentle concern roll off of Him like the sticky heat of a lazy Summer evening and it's all I can do to just close my eyes and let the tide of it sweep my away into a sea of my rural memories. It's almost enough to break me down into another round of brutal sobs, but I hold fast to myself this time and cling onto His wrists for dear life. Slowly, fragments of the day start to rise up through the soupy miasma of my brain and bob along the surface.

"...I don't want to talk about the details..." My eyes avert sharply from Him and fall to the carpeted floor. Slowly scanning across it, following the marbled pattern where our footsteps are still visible, helps to ground me and quiet some of the chattering in my teeth. "I thought today was going to be good. It was _supposed_ to be good. I did everything good! _I did everything_ good, _so why did it turn out like this!?_ "

Scalding wetness flares up in the corners of my eyes and I know I'm far closer to the verge of tears than I want to admit. He hurriedly brings His lips to the back of my head, burying them in my still untamed hair, and peppers me with soft kisses of encouragement while I shake violently against Him and choke on the acidic taste of the day's memories. Still, even here in my own little private sanctuary of Him, it takes me more than a few minutes to collect myself again and continue – even then, my voice shakes.

"...They said I was an 'experiment,' and that you were gonna' get rid of me when you could get a re-" My voice cracks, falling down an octave because the pain is overwhelming all of my senses and I can't concentrate on keeping my voice up where it's not ugly and harsh and mannish. I hate myself for it because it makes me realize just how right they were. "Better. A better girlfriend."

Behind me the firm warmth of His form snaps rock solid. The change is so immediate that it dazes me for a moment. I'm suddenly acutely aware of the sheer _size_ of the arms locked around me, holding me still, and the current of anxiety and rage I can feel coursing through them to the rest of His body. Sharp, icy knives stick their points into the skin of my small breasts and digging through the flesh and bone until they penetrate my racing heart. Why won't He answer me? I can feel the boiling heat of His gaze on the back of my head, did I make Him angry? Oh God, I should have kept my _stupid_ mouth shut, I should know there's no way He'd want damaged goods, I should just be grateful for what I have, I should have-

Shattered fragments of my broken reverie fall in a heap around me when His fingertips dig inito my arms, turning me around on the couch until I'm facing Him, at which point His touch is suddenly enveloping my jaw. His grip is unquestionable and imperious, but there is a gentleness I do not deserve in the methodical way He wipes the fresh line of tears from my cheeks and slowly raises my face to meet His gaze. Those gorgeous, crystalline eyes of His are boring deep into my soul with barely restrained rage, but I recognize the look before my anxieties can so much as utter a peep. It's the _Look_ , and the anger in it is never reserved for me – it's a quivering, impatient hound with slavering jaws desperate to sniff out whoever hurt me.

He asks me as much, quietly urging me to give Him a name. Violently shaking my head, I almost start hyper-ventilating along with a stammering denial. I'm begging Him not to do anything, not to say anything, not to anyone. It'd be obvious that I sicced Him on them and then they'd just escalate things when they retaliated. Right now, I can't even bear the idea of it. I just want Him to hold me in that tender way He does whenever I see a strange man leering at me from across the train station platform – a new specter for me, to be sure, and one that had recently started haunting me even on days when I see that all-too-familiar man in the mirror. That's all I want from Him

None of those words come to me, of course, not through the blubbering mess I've become, but He drinks them out of the desperate, imploring shudder in my eyes. Quiet thought overtakes Him as His assent rumbles deep and heavy across His chest and into my chin pressed tight against the muscles there. Staring into His eyes, I can see the drive to keep digging flash for just a moment – we both know that if He asked me again, I wouldn't be able to deny Him. But we both also know how fragile I am right now; we both know that I'd crack and break if He manhandled me that way. Instead He curls all that protective rage into a tight ball and files it away securely to revisit later, when the tremors in my limbs have fallen still and my skin no longer feels like it's about to crawl away from me. For now, the intensity in His gaze visibly shifts from a burning righteous indignation to an authoritative concern.

"Even if I _wanted_ a 'better girlfriend' – which, let me tell you, I _don't_ – but even _if_ I did, fuck it, I'd be shit out of luck." The unexpected vulgarity as He closes His response shocks the last of my tears in swiftly flooding rivers as my eyes fall wide open. That's not to say that He's never sworn in my presence. No, He's always had a sailor's tongue when the mood was right. Usually because someone had fucked Him and He wanted to make sure they could _feel_ the rage crashing off of Him in waves, or because He was fucking _me_ so hard into whatever surface He'd pinned me to that all my higher brain functions had switched off and I responded to nothing more vanilla than "Little Cunt." For times when holding the floor up beneath everyone else's feet without any recognition finally proved too great a burden for my dumb little brain to handle, and I needed to have nothing – to _be_ nothing – more than my responsibilities to the cock that owns me.

Always the clever god, He immediately pushes forward in my stunned silence. "You disrespect me, little one. Whoever these bad actors are, who are _they_ to know my needs and desires better than myself? And who are _you_ to strip me of my agency and reduce me to a reckless mongrel driven by a desperate need for a hole?" Quickly responding to the frightened shiver I just barely fail to keep out of my spine in response to His words, a razor edge I wasn't even aware had been present falls away from His eyes and His words come faster now to complete His thought before my anxieties can take over.

"You know who I am better than that, and _I_ know what I am to you better than that." Enormous, rough hands quickly envelope mine in a firm warmth, blistered and calloused from the uncountable hours of intricate carpentry that afforded His home. _Our_ home. Stark silver rings hold tightly onto my own eyes, a brown so burnt they easily masquerade as black in the right light, and the unyielding strength I see shining in them confuses me still. It's not for some show meant to puff up His own ego, it's for _me._ An unspoken but understood promise of stability, protection, and empathy.

"I would have hoped that by now, you would trust me enough to trust my intentions towards you even when I'm not in the room." His voice drops low, musing just loud enough for me to hear but clearly not expecting any actual response. "But your most intimate trust has been torn inside out by pretenders and abusers, hasn't it?" Feeling the weight of those hands that I love so much laying against my scalp and lightly scratching at my roots draws a near-primal moan out of my throat as my eyes flutter and I find myself leaning fully against His mighty person.

No answer at all is required from me. He knows all my stories, and even if He didn't the way I whimper piteously into His flesh would be a dead giveaway. As it is, my eyes are all but nailed shut and I desperately nuzzle my face deeper into the crook of His neck to surround myself in not only His heat but also His comforting scent. I'll need that scent, especially because I know what's coming next.

"But...that's not really what you want to ask me, is it? Because that's not really what _they_ said to you, is it?" Another sob chokes out of me, my shoulders wracking, but it's lighter than the others. It still hurts, but suffering alone and suffering in His embrace are two distinct sensations. "Be honest with me, babygirl. You know I expect transparency from you." The words could easily sound demanding and harsh, but from His lips they carry only the open invitation to convalesce through open communication.

If I could dare to open my eyes they would probably be fixated on Him. But even though I _know_ what His answer is going to be, I can't shake that mounting, prickling pressure that starts pooling in my gut. Opening myself up to the full gravity of His gaze is more than I could handle right now. Especially if there's even the smallest chance that my overwhelming anxiety, driven me to doubt His fidelity and honesty towards me as it has, becomes something offensive before it is reflected in that metallic stare. My voice drops to barely above a hoarse whisper.

"...Wouldn't you be better off with a r-" the words crack inside my throat, but I find the strength through His presence to hold them together long enough for them to tumble out of me and splatter grotesquely across the space between us, "with a real girl?"


	2. Affirmations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lady's Night is based loosely on elements from a number of the author's personal fantasies and kinks, and her experiences as a trans woman. If you'd like to otherwise go into this story without any other spoilers, please read on! If you'd like a deeper look at what will be included, please see end notes.
> 
> Anonymous comments are disabled, as they will be on any of the author's work that includes transgender characters. Apologies for any inconvenience.

What follows is a silence so immediate and thick that in my mounting terror I almost lose the ability to breathe. His majestic body has turned hard as stone behind me again and I curse the weakness of my own insecurities. Why did I have to say _anything_? Why is what we had, when we had it, never good enough!? What a _stupid_ fucking question, but then, of course _I_ would ask it, _stupid questions_ are all a _stupid bitch_ can -

Before I realize what's happening, He's pushed me into a sitting position and turned me around to face Him. I'm desperate to lock my eyes _anywhere_ but on Him, but it doesn't take much of His immense strength to grasp my chin in His hand and force me to stare into Him. Ice crackles almost audibly through my blood as every muscle I have coils and tenses, ready to spring away on instinct in case I've upset Him to the point where His only outlet is to lash out at me. Of course, it's not like I could go anywhere even if I had. What a magnificently, terrifyingly _powerful_ grip He has on me – it could arrest the motion of the Heavenly bodies through the night sky. If He's going to hurt me, all I can do is pray that He deigns to show me some measure of mercy and –

But, of course, the idea of hurting me is so alien to Him that His mind would crack in half before His fingers ever curled shut. There's zero hint of any malice in the way He gazes forlornly down at me. And the disappointment I see isn't at my performance in His service, but at His _own_ performance in _mine_. How? How can He look at me like that, with all the morose repentance of a sinning parishioner? Doesn't He know that _He's_ the god that _I_ worship?

No! I don't like this! I don't _understand_ it, it _scares_ me! I'm not worth that expression, those emotions. I can't even ask Him for emotional support without making Him feel bad about himself! God, fuck, _stop it_! Stop _looking_ at me like that, I'm not priceless!

"Y-you've given me too much, don't you think? I know that being with me has made things difficult for you. The issues with your family's opinion of me aside, I know that you're losing clients because nobody wants to come near your apartment anymore! Not when you keep a trann-" The poison of the slur doesn't even finish collecting in the arch of my flapping tongue before His hand is wrapped around my neck and holding me pinned on my back to the seat of the couch.

Blinking rapidly to adjust to the now-direct glare of the ceiling lamp, His dark, massive silhouette looms over me – but I feel no fear. I only feel safe. Heady submission immediately burns through my throat, flowing to the rest of me in a the form of nearly-glowing scarlet swathes that spread through my cheeks, across the bridge of my nose, and down along my shoulders. He does this a lot, when my fears start out-pacing my thoughts, and I always love it. He calls it "grabbing my voice." I'll admit that when He first brought up the idea of using choking to interrupt my problems with spiraling negative self-talk, I was skeptical – especially with a name as corny as that. But whatever it is that He does to His already extremely dominant countenance before sliding His fingers around my throat catches the breath in my lungs. It really does feel like He's reached into my neck and gagged my voice.

"Don't you _ever_ use that word in my house. Especially not to describe yourself. It's _foul_ and I will _not_ have my peace – and yours – tainted by it!" Even just a few minutes earlier, I might have interpreted the rise in His tone as a sign of anger or frustration, but with the worst of my immediate anxieties chased away I have a clear enough head to read it for what it is. He's concerned for me. Terrified for me, for what He knows I think about myself and how often He knows I think it. Idly, as my breath stabilizes from a terrified heave to a low, nervous whine through my teeth, I wonder about how He so easily stills the trembling in my hands.

It comes to me in a flash. His eyes. In this position, blinking the stunned confusion out of my face as He pins me to my back and holds my gaze up towards the Heavens – up towards Him – there's nowhere for me to escape from His eyes. Behind those glittering silver irises is a bottomless well flooding over with such intense, focused love. Flames erupt and roil into a ball deep within my tummy at the sight of it, as I realize that every single ounce of His attention is trained on me – and only me. Right here, in this moment, nothing else in the whole world exists. It's just Him, and me, and the radiating heat hanging in the tiny amount of space left between us.

"Up." From Him, even just that one word has me on my feet with such haste that you might think my life depended on it. He stands languidly beside me, stretching Himself out with a deep yawn. I know that I'm edging close to a line, but I can't stop my eyes from surreptitiously darting across His toned belly when the stretching pulls His shirt up over them. It takes every ounce of self-control I have not to start drooling all over myself and His carpet like a starving woman.

I'm too busy ogling Him to pay enough attention to where _His_ attention is, though, and I don't realize my mistake until His fingers are gripping into the back of my neck and my frightened eyes are turned to lock with His steeled, narrow gaze. The bottom of my stomach drops out in fear and arousal. I know that look. It's a dangerous look. I was bad and I took more than I was allowed to have, and now He's scheming every horrendously delicious way He can make me scream out my apologies until my throat is raw and my body simply can't wring out one more climax without falling apart at the seams. Maybe I'll get lucky and He'll offer me a punishment to get back into His good graces.

Nervously, I start chewing on my bottom lip and whimper my submission quietly while He stares at me. Several moments pass before His arm knocks my legs out from under me and pulls me up into a bridal carry against His chest. The nervous squeak that slips past my carefully painted lips dies there, strangled and muffled against Him, as He laughs at my shocked response and growls comfortably into the side of my neck – right at the base of my skull.

"Come on, little girl. Let's take this somewhere a little more comfortable. I have a feeling we're going to be in for a _loooong_ conversation, and I'd rather you be surrounded by things that set you at ease. Is that okay? We can stay here if you'd like, but-" A moment's indiscretion – maybe a flash of my bratty mask slipping back onto my face – and I interrupt Him with an unexpected kiss. He recovers from the shock quickly of course, and escalates as He always does. The force pressing back on my lips leaves no doubt in my mind which one of us is the stronger partner as His tongue forcefully takes what it wants from my the inside of my mewling cheeks.

He carries me through the L shaped hallway and up the flight of old, creaky stairs while I cling to Him, shivering like a nearly-drowned cat holding onto her owner for dear life. In a lot of ways that's exactly who we are, although I giggle softly when the thought crosses my mind that He'd probably only frown at me and scold me for thinking of myself as "anything less than a shimmering purebreed." God, I can hear His voice in the back of my mind so much now whenever I start to look down on myself. That irritating, smug, shit-eating grin blooming on His face makes me want to smack His shoulder, and for a brief moment I wonder irrationally if He can read my thoughts.

"No sweetie," He whispers into my ear, startling me, "whatever you're thinking about, I can't read your mind. I _can_ read your _face_ however. You always get the same little twist to your lips and scrunch in your nose when you're grumbling over something you think I'd say. It's cute, really." Raucous laughter at the gasping "O" of my lips bubbles up from deep within His belly as He shuffles me into the crook of one arm, pinning me so tight that I can't move – but I also won't fall – and He reaches out to open the bedroom door with His other hand.

From here, it's an easy task for Him to stride broadly across the floor and toss me onto the feathery bed. He's on top of me before I have time to bounce more than once, trapping me in place. He braces himself above me by pressing a palm into the mattress, and draws His other hand up to my left shoulder to slowly squeeze it. Not enough to leave any marks or hurt me. It's the same pressure, almost like a tiny embrace, that He gives me when He has me blindfolded and I can't hear Him for several seconds. A simple gesture with a simple message. _I'm here; I know you're afraid, but I'm here and you know that as long as I'm here than_ nothing _will harm you_. Some incredible weight that I was only marginally aware of lifts from my chest and shoulders at the touch of His hands.

Not long after He's nestling Himself down firmly on top of me. For my part, my arms and legs instinctively sweep open wide to accept Him and wrap tightly around His torso to lock Him here. Where He belongs. Where _I_ belong. My body wiggles against Him to settle itself into a more comfortable position for His blistering weight to rest. His thick, rough lips scratch lightly against the the creases in my ears as His whispered platitudes rumble deep into my brain. Which, by this point, is already making desperate, greedy little "grabby-hands" at Him begging to be validated.

"In _what world_ do you think that I'm not already dating a 'real girl?' What does that even mean?" A sharp cry escapes me, answered by a predatory smile, as His hand slides up along the fleshy curve of my thigh. It doesn't stop until His fingers are but a hair's breadth away from the small bulge in my frilly panties. _Fuck_ , goddammit, I can _feel_ the heat pouring out of His fingertips and blistering through the supple satin and against the shaved skin of my –

Rising panic must be bubbling up in my eyes because the next thing I know I have His grip back around my throat and the sharply chiseled lines and angles of His face filling my vision. "I know where I can find a 'real girl,' already, though. She's right here. In my bed. Underneath me, bathing in my scent. Which is exactly where I _want_ her." Bathing in His...scent? Confused, I sniff lightly at the air and I can feel my face explode in shock and embarrassment as I realize that He's right.

Quietly rubbing Himself against me this whole time, He's completely enveloped me in it. God, shit, I _love_ the way He smells. Waves of something acrid and salty and damp crash across every exposed inch of my skin, seeping through all of my cracks until I can feel His essence like an expanding pressure deep within my chest. My vision swims with the delicate lines of a paper-thin memory and I desperately soak up His scent and rough touch to fill in those faded lines with color and sound and _love_.

A young girl scrambling across the moist, opalescent sand of some distant beach. That fresh, dewy after-rain small twining into the briny spray cast off where the ocean waters smashed against nearby black rocks. Warmth from her father's hand as He caught up to her and forced her to hold on to Him for safety, as the sand beneath her feet had suddenly given way to still-smoking glass where a stroke of lightning had cut across it. Her father's smile as she marveled at the magic of it all, blabbering about how breath-takingly beautiful those twisting, shimmering arches had been long after He had picked her up and carried her back home.

Just as quickly as the ethereal memories rose from the depths of my subconsciousness, they're bleeding back down and away from me. I'm left panting breathlessly as I start up at Him, reveling in the glory of His presence. My voice is wispy and distant, falling quickly into submission. "D-Daddy..."

In so many ways He is my comfort, my safety, my _home_. In all the ways that matter, He blesses me with the gift of an unconditional love I thought I would never see again. It should be beautiful. The sight of it should fill me to bursting with affection and calm. Instead, I'm left with the feeling of a broken knife twisting in my gut. I can't bear knowing how devoted He is to _me_ when He could be spending that time with someone who could give Him what He wants. What He _deserves_. Before I can answer Him, the shame of it pulls my face down into my bosom.

"But people look at you different now because of me...they whisper behind your back, I've heard it! You lose so much time having to handle me because I don't have the strength to handle my own stupid brain-" Fingers are suddenly twisted and coiled in the long mess of my hair, tugging with unexpected strength to yank my head back up from my chest. Something caught between a surprised gasp and an aching yip tears out of my throat and I'm forced to lock eyes with Him.

"Don't. You. _Dare_. Don't you dare insult something so precious to me." Daddy's glare is intense and it feels like He could burn the top of my head off with just that look. But then He leans forward and presses another gentle kiss to me, on the ridge of my brow, and I go cross-eyed trying to watch Him do it. Seeing the way I'm staring at Him He chuckles as He pulls back just far enough that I can clearly see His face again without letting go or getting off of me. "This brain has saved my ass more times than I can count." My Daddy falls silent for a moment, just exerting more of His influence over my mind and my biology to quell my rampant fears, before He lowers His voice.

"I wish you could tell me exactly what it is that you think makes you not 'a real girl.' Is it one thing? Is it _everything_?" Compassion and pity soften the point of His gaze and it mercifully fades from penetrating me to comforting me. "I feel like it would be easier for me to help you if I know exactly what they said – and who said it." A finger falls on my lips just as I'm about to interject. "But I know that you're not ready to tell me about that. Whatever it is that triggered your dysphoria, it must have been extremely personal... I'm sorry that someone was disgusting enough to aim for you there."

Pulling on my hair again, gently this time, with the intent to guide rather than to interrupt, He opens up my throat to Him and my whole body falls limp. We're like a wild cat and a rag doll, by this point, and I'm still not sure whether He reminds me of a noble lion in an enclosure at the zoo or a feral, ravenous tiger looking for a place to sharpen His fangs. With a dark thrill, satisfying that twisted, self-destructive urge inside of me, I kind of hope that He's the latter. "Every single part of your body is a real woman's body. _Every_ part of it, from your head to your toes. You're the perfect woman for me. Would you like me to show you how?" The heat in my belly has nearly spread to every fiber of muscle in my body and I have to hold myself back from screaming His name in desperation while nodding with such force that for a second I fear He's going to have to pick out a gravestone for me by tomorrow morning.

He quietly smiles at me before pressing His lips to my forehead again, eliciting a light giggle and a momentary squirm from me. "This is _obviously_ the mind of the woman I love. The gorgeous, soft thoughts in here are what drew me out of a very dark place in my life. Don't you know that?" My eyes flutter closed at the gentle press of another kiss. "There's a beautiful princess in here. I know she feels like she's been cursed or trapped in a tower, like something is holding her back from connecting with others, but she connected with me, didn't she? Princess," naughty, _hungry_ tremors dance through my body at the term, "you bitterly wept for your loneliness out of the tower's windows, and I _answered_."

My eyes closed, I can only place His face's location by the heated puffs of His breath as He brings His lips down to assault mine. "These are the lips of the woman I love. I could go on for days about how beautiful they are, you know. So plump, so juicy. Especially when you have them painted in those blazing scarlets or Gothic violets you love so much, it's all I can do not to sink my teeth into them and eat you alive." Daddy laughs softly when I squeak in shock and I shyly turn my head away, knowing full well that He can still easily see my blush. "But of course it's more than that. These are the lips that have brought such peace and quiet into my home. These lips soothe the raging beast inside of me; they ground me and keep me from doing anything...regrettable."

He trails His kisses down across my chin and into the curve of my throat – for a brief second, He sinks His teeth tightly into the flesh there, cutting off my breath before I can gasp as His hand cups one of my small, still-developing breasts. "And here we have a woman's neck," He begins quietly after finally pulling His mouth free of me. "I just can't get enough of seeing the way it twists and stretches when your turn your head this way or that. The way it twitches whenever you start to get excited or animated." Chortling, Daddy runs the tip of His finger down along the length of it and silently nods when I flinch at His touch against the sharp protrusion there. " _This_ ," He stressed with a gentle hiss, "does not make you any less a woman. Or _my_ woman. If it's anything, it's just another landmark for me to navigate the gorgeous landscape of your body."

I suddenly feel the hot moisture of His tongue dancing across my Adam's apple and _god-fucking-dammit_ , whatever I may think about that ugly little knob in my throat, the way Daddy can dance His tongue across my skin shatters any other thoughts in my head. When I feel His touch, when I see the way He attacks me there as if He were starving and my flesh was the first meat He had seen in weeks, I start to feel that certainty He so easily wears around Himself and think that maybe – just maybe – it doesn't dominate my face the way my insecurities whisper and rage at me that it does. Eventually, though, He continues His journey "southward" until His eyes are level with my nipples.

The way He hurriedly falls silent and quickly has to wipe the back of His hand against His lips to clean up His own drool makes me so shy that my hands fly up to cover my face. My body would squirm away from Him too, if He weren't holding onto my hips so tightly. "Ahhh, you have such beautiful breasts, too." His fingers start rooting around for the buttons in my blouse, and He clears His throat to demand my attention, meeting my gaze and waiting for me to nod shyly in assent before He starts tearing them open. When the last of them has been undone, He yanks the white fabric open to reveal the blooming gifts that my prescriptions had started to grow for me.

"I know that you're unhappy with where you are, right now, but Daddy's baby girl is still so early in all of this." My ears burn at the title. "And even then, you're already developing! People have started commenting on them, haven't they?" Layered beneath the question is a perverse tone that catches me off-guard, and He snickers as my chest expands towards Him with a quick intake of breath. My Daddy's eyes drink in the sight beneath Him, my bare tummy and the floral pattern of my black, sheer bra, and I see the decision to take advantage of my vulnerable state before He even moves. His nose pressing lightly into my sternum only to be followed by a line of kisses down along the length of it sends me into a fit of giggles, and I can only smile with a sigh of relief and exhaustion as I feel the last of my tears finally slip free and fall from my face.

Wave after wave of mounting affection wash over me and hold my mind captive in an enraptured bliss thick and warm with the cotton it wraps around my thoughts. Daddy means it all, doesn't He? Staring up at Him bashfully, reaching up to hide the blushing quiver in my eyes behind a thick handful of hair, I bask in the way He handles my body with a graceful care that seems totally at odds with the strain vibrating through His sculpted physique. A quick nip at my breasts leaves me shouting out quickly in surprise, but my voice falls into a steady moan when His teeth hold their connection to my flesh steady and sink in so tightly it feels like they might burst through the skin at any moment.

I'm being held in place by His bite, at most able to wriggle a little to one side or the other. Not that I want to, given that even the most minute shift tugs my breasts around in His jaws and drags a slow groan out of me dripping with both agony and arousal. "D-Daddy! Your t-teeth, they're – oh _God_..." A sharp pinch, a splash of warmth, and Daddy is suckling something crimson off of the side of my tits. " _F-FUCK_ , Daddy! You...you tore me! Are you..." I swallow deeply, feeling the shameful swell between my thighs at the thought of it as I watch Him rub His face against the small, bleeding holes. "You marked me."

By the time the words finally tumble out of me, they're a statement. Not a question. I don't need to ask Him, to wonder. I _know_ what my God is doing to me. We've talked about this, I've told Him I'm ready it whenever He was after everything He's done for me...but I didn't think He would actually _mark me_. I didn't think He'd ever want to.

Thank _God_ I decided to tuck earlier this morning. Watching Him place His Mark on me – _feeling_ Him cut into my flesh with His bare teeth that way – rattles my self-control and leaves a straining pressure in my panties. Had I left everything out and free, I'd probably be having a breakdown right now at the sight of my tenting skirt. As it stands, Daddy doesn't seem to notice and stays glued to my chest until the bleeding stops.

When He does finally pull away He wraps His hands around my wrists in a vice-like grip to hold them down and keep me pinned to the bed. He smiles down at me, but the sharp, toothy nature of the grin makes it clear that the previous compassion and nurturing kindness that once lived there fled. In its place has settled a deep, ravenous need that whispers savagely to the that dark, primal core of my soul that _needs_ to be overpowered and overwhelmed. Mumbling something incoherent on instinct, I lightly jerk my head hoping to cover my face with my hair and hide from that stare before it can drink up all of my shame – but judging by that nefarious twinkle in His eye, I can only suspect that He has a night full of embarrassing things planned for me.

I'd whine about it, but deep inside there's a tiny little slut starting to wake up and she _loves_ it.

"Oh, would you look here, I found my Mark!" He exclaims His "find" with all the smug excitement of a young boy who knows He's just gotten away with a horrible joke. "And you know that I'm straight, so my Mark would only show up on _my woman_."

Oh _fuck me_. The way His eyes suddenly turn into slits when He forces the last two words out in a rumbling snarl awakens something inside of me that suddenly _aches_. The pain of it arcs across my chest and tummy – hunger. It's hunger. I feel like a starving woman who's suddenly had a piece of prime rib set down in front of her and then found herself chained to the wall. I only realize that I've started whimpering for His touch when He slides His fingers off of my wrists and twines them in my own to squeeze my palms while He whispers for me to quiet down.

"You have the hands of a woman too," He mutters, almost distractedly, as He draws them forward to inspect them. "These are the hands that have taken care of me so diligently, no matter how many times I would remind you that you had no obligation to." Daddy presses His lips to the intricately-detailed paint on several of them. "They're the hands of a skilled and dedicated housewife. They've prepared so many hearty meals to fill my belly and warm my soul after my responsibilities have left me drained and empty. They've not only picked up my household organization, but _improved it_. They've kneaded every inch of this tired, worn old flesh when it's grown knotted and stiff, reducing me to smooth butter."

He's pressing His face into my belly, His eyes closed softly, simply lying there basking in my scent. My hands are free now, and I gently lay my palms against the back of His head to gently rub it. My voice calling out His name is barely above a whisper, but every part of Him is honed in on me and He has no trouble hearing me _beg_ Him for more. More of this. Of all of it. More attention. More affirmation. More acceptance.

"Oh, you poor, sweet little thing. You're on guard _all_ the time, aren't you?" I feel His kisses stroll along past my belly button and my whole body spasms in delight when I feel those gorgeous teeth grazing against the soft flesh inside of my thighs. It takes everything in my willpower not to wrap my legs around His damn neck and squeeze Him into me. "I have a confession to make – maybe it's selfish, but I'm happy that you can feel enough of my love for you to allow yourself to surrender completely before me. I know there are others in your life, but, this – this is _ours_. _This_ ," He quickly darted back in to Mark my thigh, clearly celebrating the pained cry of lust He drags out of me, "this is _mine_."

Daring to glance down, I see the top of His head framed perfectly as He lifts my legs and hooks them over His shoulders. "And why wouldn't I be so earnest to protect what's mine? These are the legs of an absolute _goddess_!" Fingers dance along my skin and I giggle uncontrollably as He tickles me. "These are the legs of my _mate_. Her beautiful, frail, legs that stretch on for _miles_. They were crafted to the perfect proportions to open themselves up to me, to wrap around and hold me deep within you when it's time to fill you." His voice falls into a sultry tone I didn't think any man could reach, but, then, Daddy's always been full of surprises for me. "And what could _these_ be, hm?"

Confusion blooms across my features and I let my head droop to one side before I feel His hand wrap itself around my one of my feet. The unexpected touch startles me, but He immediately brings me back down when He starts rubbing His thumb into my arch. Normally I hate _anyone_ touching my feet – I won't even look at them myself – but the way He cradles it like it was the most precious thing in the entire world.

"These are definitely a woman's feet, gorgeous. It pierces my breast with pity whenever I see that sickened, green tint color your beautiful face when you look at them. I know you think you have such large, ugly feet, but Princess these _aren't even that big_. Plenty of women have feet the same size as you." He takes hold of both of my feet now, carefully sliding the black thigh socks off one leg at a time, and eventually places them against His solid abs. "Ah, they're so goddamn _soft_ it drives me nuts! Those nights that you feel comfortable enough with your body to touch me with them are like Heaven, don't you know?"

Stammering some non-committal response, I'm struggling to keep my eyes from rolling into the back of my head at the hot-and-cold sensation of His touch. I can feel the _beast_ quivering just underneath His skin, a demigod of near Herculean proportions that could shatter me into a million pieces if He was careless with His hands; a beast just itching for a chance to shatter the chains Daddy held it down with to annihilate my body. Yet every caress, every stroke, is so painfully calculated and deliberate. It's like feeling the power of an enraged orchestra rolling across my skin. Powerful enough to destroy me on a whim, gentle enough to never use that strength to hurt me.

By this point I'm struggling to keep my treacherous anatomy in place. Sweat beads along my brow from the exertion, but I've been smiling as I play it off as a result of the heat flowing between us. I pray to God that Daddy stops shifting the two of us around so much, though, because if He keeps at this eventually it's going to –

"But I think there's something else that's been bothering you, isn't there? One last beautiful, glorious part of my little girl that has been used by sick people to hurt her. Am I right, babygirl?" My eyes immediately stop trying to roll away and snap directly onto His face, shaking slightly with a heady mixture of surprise and nervousness. Immediately His fingers are brushing against my check to calm me as His face softens from stalking pleasure to respectful patience. "You know that I love all of you. _All_ of you, in every shape that you're in. I would like to show you one last part of my woman that I love. If you would be alright with it."

...Oh _fuck me_ , he knows that I'm hard. _  
_

**Author's Note:**

> The content of this story will include:
> 
> * DD/lg relationship dynamics
> 
> * Male authority
> 
> * Gendered references to genitalia
> 
> * (Poorly) described anxiety and gender dysphoria
> 
> * Explicit sexual acts between a man and a trans woman
> 
> * BDSM and sexual violence, including choking/strangling, spanking-as-punishment/spanking-as-emotional-release
> 
> * Light Omegaverse themes (as in, ABO dynamics were not, explicitly, in the author's mind when writing Lady's Night, but certain elements could be read that way), such as scenting
> 
> * Tender/romantic sexual acts intended to celebrate the protagonist's feminine nature


End file.
